The Prince will Fall Tonight - Eng
by OctavCat
Summary: The suicide of Severus Snape during his sixth or seventh year at Hogwarts. English version of my French fanfiction.


He was tired.

He was tired of fighting.

He no longer believed in bravery.

Neither bravery nor love nor honour had protected him from his father. The Marauders, as much Gryffindor-esque they claimed to be, would never grow tired of chasing him and ruining his life wherever he went. Worse, they had Lily. He had lost Lily.

Perhaps he should have made Lily understand why White Magic was worse than Dark Magic when it was used for the same purposes. Maybe he should have shown her how hypocritical James was, showed him the extent to which his humiliations and discriminations went. Perhaps he should have told her that Sirius had planned to let him be killed by Lupin: dead, he could not have said that Sirius had been the one who had indicated the Shrieking Shack. Snape would have died by _accident_ during a nighttime getaway. Perhaps he should have confessed that since that night, he had become a monster.

He rolled up his sleeves, not even daring to touch the bite scar under the moonlight.

Going to Slytherin had been a mistake. In every point. He had drawn assaults from Potter and Black. He was far from Lily. He was insulted in his own House because he had mentioned being a Half-Blood, son of a Blood-Traitor. And everyone around him was becoming a Death Eater, which Lily hated. Oh, he had once believed that becoming a Death Eater would impress her, that he could protect her if he showed that Lily was an exception, that no one should touch a Death Eater's wife even if she was Muggle-Born. It had become all too clear: Lily would not save her skin, she would run to face the Death Eaters on the battle front. And she had said that everything related to Dark Magic was disgusting to her. _I'm disgusting_.

He was in pain. Always in pain. His life was nothing but hell from which he would not escape. It hurt when his father beat him. It hurt every month when he transformed. It hurt because of the Marauders. It hurt because Lily was gone. It hurt all the time ... he had enough. He couldn't take it anymore. He didn't want to think anymore. This brain he loved so much had become the source of other misfortunes. He was thinking too much. He was tired. The humiliations, the fear, the abandonment and the injustice were swirling 'round his head, again and again - and nobody was there to help him, nobody would be there to defend him, nobody would come unless it'd be to mock or to abuse him ... there would be no one. He was alone. Definitely alone.

Neither the director, nor the Head of the House, nor the promises of Lucius or the plans of the Dark Lord would cure him. Neither Mulciber nor Rosier nor Avery had come for him, worse, he was still excluded from their group because he was the laughingstock of school. He couldn't take it anymore.

He was aware that next night was full moon, and it was for this reason that his thoughts kept drifting towards each hardship he endured. Each movement triggered a wave of pain, his joints suffering the most. He was even paler than before, he felt really sick. He was hungry but didn't want to eat anymore. He no longer functioned well. What was he saying – he'd _never_ functioned well. Since he was born among the Snape-Prince, at Spinner's End, he was condemned to be a worthless shit to be laughed at. He wanted to make his mother proud, rich, to protect her from his father, become respectable and harbour the love of his life: nothing had worked as he had hoped. Nothing. All his fears were realized, and it would continue. He was in pain tonight, and he would be in pain every week before and after the full moon.

Suddenly rage took him by the throat. He wanted to scratch this bite to the bone. Latent violence, a fury that he nurtured at each belt cut, because that is what he was: a victim; and even if his dignity was brought to its lowest point, neither teacher nor pupil would help him, no, he would always be the problem. _You exist_, he had said, the problem is that he exists. He was the one you'd accuse, and life took on an ever more bitter, ever more ironic taste. Life was unfair. He was one of the few who could see how horribly true these words were. And to be honest, he wanted to be like Lily: ignore it, never learn how painful it was.

Lily. He didn't even know if he would have been a good husband. He was already catching himself after a meltdown, crystal vials burst at his feet. The bubble of fury that swelled in his chest, the violence that his Muggle father had instilled in him - what if he beat Lily one day?

The thought had the effect of an icy shower. He shivered.

Yes, he was disturbed. Maybe he would become his father... Potter would never be violent towards her, no, he wouldn't have learned to be violent, except if once again he was wrong about him. But he, _Snape_... he was the disturbed, dangerous boy on the other side of the river. What if one day his hands slipped? He would never forgive himself. Then he would come back to the same point: he'd return there, among the winds, under the soft clouds of Scotland, far up there...

He climbed the castle battlements. He felt both free and fragile. A wrong step and...

He was above everything. Better. He was finally in control. Who would stop him? Sure, everyone had made sure that he chose the easy solution... but at least, for once, if the pain could not let him free, he could still feel the world. Empty, a world where he felt alone, and where the moon had become a threat more than a simple image painted on the sky... but he would almost have felt like flying.

To say that he was not afraid would be a lie. His body was howling all the unnatural side of the thing. He shouldn't stand so close to the edge. He should just go to bed, wait, sleep, let the pain subside a bit, continue, let time heal him, or at least present a solution, one day...

To postpone.

_Easy_.

They say topping yourself is an act of cowardice. No. When you are weak, you let yourself live on misfortunes. When you are brave, desperate, or resigned, then you take your last step.

There is just a point where we don't care about fixing our problems because it's useless. Where our life is no longer of value, than to euthanize is better. Living in misery is not courage. Courage was apparently what Potter represented. A lie. Snape had long been disillusioned.

Courage was admitting defeat.

The wind blew again, carrying a few sparkling drops dancing among Severus' black locks. He was afraid, he had enough. He had never thought of getting so miserable. His disgust with himself was at its highest, and now he hated himself for having chosen this solution. Couldn't he have done something to avoid all this suffering? Why had he had the idea of joining Slytherin, why not begging the Sorting Hat to place him in Gryffindor like Lily? Why hadn't he run away instead of letting his father mark him for life? Why was he letting himself get carried away so easily? He should never have believed that the Death Eaters would help him, never believed the bullshit about Pureblood superiority. He should have run away from his father long ago. He should never have approached the lake, never uttered _Levicorpus_ in front of them, he should never have provoked them by saying that Slytherins were the most intelligent back in first year in the train.

His fault. His fault after all. He should have acted before. And he had failed. Everywhere, always.

And so he sat down, folded his knees against his chest, hoping that closing in would not only protect from the north wind but also warm him up for a little while inside. But it was too much. Here is a student who had walked at the death's door. It was so pathetic. He, Snape, the Half-Blood Prince, the Potions Prodigy (whom Slughorn didn't even invite) was tormented and found himself at the top of a tower. The tower of his own house ... The Prince was almost in a foetal position, quivering in his torn robes. The Prince should have stood high and proud, even if it meant crushing the others. The Prince should have been the next interviewed in the _Prophet_. The Prince could have joined the war and let his hard training pay. The Prince never cried. The Prince would have succeeded in life.

He shook his head in a stifled sob.

He waited, waited for someone to come and search for him. Anybody. Potter who would push him onward. Black who would literally push him. Slughorn who would finally reconsider him. Dumbledore, the elder wise man who would advise him and take him away from the edge. Lily who would kneel to beg him not to take another step, crying for all his grief and finally accepting him. It was _him_ who cried alone in the cold. He could have screamed but he didn't want to... Another part of him wanted to believe in those tales, where the hero was saved or saved someone before his fall. A turn of events... Someone... But no. As with each call for help, no one was available. Worst. Everyone ignored. No one had looked any further.

And if Snape had revealed himself, he would have been told that he wanted to show off, the victim... and he was already loathing himself too much...

He had sworn to himself, he had sworn never to cry again. He wrapped his robes around his shoulders, shuddering, ears freezing, extremities numb.

He didn't want to die. No. He still wanted to feel Lily's lips on his. He wanted to be happy. To hold her in his arms. He wanted justice to come and save him. He wanted to explore the Magical World of Wizards.

Immediately he wanted to throw up: Potter had stolen Lily's first kiss, had stolen her entirely. Potter drew justice to him and made injustice reign over others. Potter had inherited the world at his feet. He had everything Snape could only want. _Potter_.

A wave of destructive rage bubbled up. He scratched his face, neck, shoulders, arms, hands, until he turned red. He was trembling with hatred and despair.

_Potter_.

He pulled and pulled and leaned his head wanting to tear his hair away.

_Potter_.

Black curls started to snow on the castle floor but it was not enough: Severus shoved his fist in his mouth and _squeezed_. He was on the verge of screaming.

_Potter and Lily_.

Potter and Lily _kissing_.

He bit even harder, begging internally for the torture to stop, for the physical pain to win...

_"James..."_

He can't take it anymore. He lets himself slip out of the battlefield. He hits the stone with all his might. His forehead rings, the back of his head has felt the shock. His skull is so soft.

His brain wants to be stubborn, to make him suffer?

_Pot-_

He banged a second time, but the pain is not intense enough. It knocks you out, but it doesn't hurt. He pulls harder on his greasy locks, and he can't take it anymore, he does what his father loved to do, what he loves to do now: to hit himself again-again-even harder...

His fist slows down a few inches above his head. He tries a few more blows. But this is too much... too much... Again, he went too far. What would he do if one day he hit himself so hard he loses it? His only gift had been his intelligence... But what if it was taken away?

He was no better than his father in the end. This was what he was reduced to: he had been so savagely beaten that he'd hurt himself. This was how twisted and dangerous he was. That was why he shouldn't go near Lily...

The pain was a little too strong...

He let his head fall back into his arms. Kneeling before the stone, slumped between his robes, shivering as the sweat evaporated, Severus hiccuped. Difficult to let go of all his pain... He would always keep a some of it, so he did not expect much relief.

And then the minutes passed to see him quiet, filled with hollow and calm.

Why not run away? Why, if he could stand hundreds of feet off the ground to end his life, couldn't he go away from his mother, his father, Hogwarts, Wizards, everything? Another year and he would be free... To flee the war, to flee from his enemies, to flee from the source of all his joys and all his grief.

No, he couldn't. Because he was just too poor to leave. Nobody would accept him as an apprentice. Was it a life to abandon your Potions Master or Defense projects? Hogwarts would catch up with him. His father would catch up. His bad luck.

Himself.

He had known this for far too long.

He stood up. He felt... finally appeased. It hurt still, it was cold and fear was still present, as was the mist that clouded his thoughts. But he finally saw more clearly, the knot in his stomach had disappeared, the headache helped to orient his reflections. Yes. The night called him as surely as the moon would have done the next day. He had a goal, a destiny. He knew what to do. He was...

Definite.

**The Prince would fall tonight.**

He slid the piece of wood out of his robe and held it out between his fingers, facing it, facing the void. His wand, as black as Lily's was white.

He broke it. The unicorn hair twinkled in the midnight blue sky, silver threads, strings of light out of their useless and soiled casing. When he brushed the strands with his fingertips, he felt a discharge of icy flames run through his nerves. He kept the core of the wand and dropped the wood before him.

No, he didn't want to put on a show. He didn't want to make Lily suffer, not make her cry yet again because of him. He smiled. Knowing that by not putting himself in her way would relieve her... maybe she would be _happy without him_. Perhaps it was the best thing to do, the logical course of events. He had prepared everything, for a few weeks already, mentally, he no longer wanted to back off. Tonight he would die.

It seemed like a promise of comfort.

Another little effort, and everything would be fine. At least he wouldn't hurt anymore, he wouldn't hurt anymore.

He'd even brought two vials of potions just in case. Either he fell asleep, or he poisoned himself, without there being an antidote to this new poison, fruit of his imagination. At least he had been given the gift of inventing his own scaffold.

Lily ...

He looked up to the sky.

_Lily. If hell or heaven exists, know that I will watch over you. I will be wherever you are. Especially if you find yourself alone... I will never let you down, Lily. My Lily. Sorry Lily... but you stole my heart, isn't it fair to call yourself "my Lily" in return?_

Her name sounded soft on his lips ... Lily. What a pretty name. What a charming girl. He would have died for her. Lily... the one who accepted him, the one he couldn't help loving... An illness, a curse, it was so much pain. But she was innocent... she didn't have to experience it all. If Severus could drain all the world's woes out of Lily's reach and take them to the other side, then he was happy...

A lump formed in his throat. What was he thinking? His death would mean nothing. His death would have no consequences in the world. An afterlife? How long had he believed in it? Watching over Lily? She would have scatter him off. And then, this thing of draining the misfortunes of the world... Ridiculous.

_Sentimental, Severus?_

_We had learned better than that._

Stop it.

He would not be happy. He would be _dead_. And when he was dead, he would no longer feel anything. Fear and doubt ebbed... maybe it was too early to put an end to his whole life. He hadn't seen anything yet. He could... he could... Perhaps life could offer him something. He was young... Such a radical solution... Oh, his sufferings were worth dying, surely. But…

But he didn't want to hesitate anymore. He had to do something... tonight. He had had 6 years to put things in order, and everything had gotten worse. Nothing would work out. You just had to use your brains to face the facts.

They had won.

A shiver ran down his spine. Yet he clenched his fists in his resolution.

Come on. Be brave.

Why wouldn't Dumbledore come? Dumbledore was only human after all.

He took a few deep breaths despite the mucus and saliva that washed over his face. So, that was it, what it felt like to be a Quidditch hero? The feeling of flying and having the world at your feet? He wiped his face off with the sleeves of his uniform.

_When we finish crying, there is this peculiar smell... like when we have a cold. It was not so unpleasant, especially when we were cured..._

His legs were shaking as he climbed back up.

_The forest smells of honey and flowers, wet leaves and sometimes ice in this lovely spring..._

He opened the first flask. What great honour... The Prince - the Half-Blood Prince could die only if he killed himself. And the future Potions Master will have concocted his own methods. The liquid shone in all colours, luminescent in the dark night. A bottle of light. A beauty.

He tilted his head and let the thick liquid run down his throat, licking the edge to make sure he swallowed it all. How ironic... the worst poisons could have the best tastes.

The flask exploded on the stone.

He reached out for the second. He hadn't even realized what he was doing. Until now. The words echoed clearly in his head: _I'm going to die, I'm putting an end to my life_. He seemed a little surprised. It was fast and... real. Concrete. No longer a dream. His reality.

He smiled.

And shivered.

The left sleeve of his robes fell over his forearm and floated in the gentle breeze. Down there, he saw the potion go up his veins, a rainbow under his transparent skin. It flew back up, and Severus felt the thick liquid push, inflate his veins. The sensation spread to the rest of his body: the heart, to the bottom of the legs. He tilted his head back, hair cascading over his shoulders, smiling nevertheless when he felt it crawl under his neck, creep under his skull, fill his eyes... he would have sworn that his pupils had swallowed the irises in an inky black more abysmal than ever. However, a light was lit there. Behind, perhaps we could have seen a thousand swirling colours...

He sighed. Already his vision was trembling, he distinguished the shapes of the forest with much more sharpness, but stars appeared in his field of vision...

It was the Art of Potions in all its splendour, an honour for the Prince to choose his death as well.

He felt weak. Far too weak... far too vulnerable. His frail little heart began to pump faster, as if he wanted to compensate for all the years that Severus gave up upon. No matter...

He opened the second vial. He looked far away. One last time. _Lily._

He gulped down the clear watery liquid.

_Lily._

_Lily._

He hurt sill. He was cold, he was frozen even... he was shaking too much.

_Lily._

_Ah... It was almost the feeling of fainting. Our body feels that something is wrong, that it is going to... die... Your stomach is already contracting, as if it knew that it was containing poison._

Alone.

He was still afraid of death—

Green eyes.

Despite all the constellations that filled his view...

_The emerald eyes._

Li...

Lily...

...


End file.
